Tick tick

slips through
my grasping fingers
as I search
for something tangible
to pin my spindling
thoughts to,
caught like threads
and tangled up.

Of soil and bridges

I tread new soil and
burn old bridges.
But the threads that run through me
disguised as new ideas and identities
have long been woven into this
patchwork of lives and lives
in a foreign place;
A place of soil and bridges
that I have never stepped upon
and to which I will never return.